The Book of Pythia
by Manic Muse
Summary: What is the story behind the Book of Pythia? Where did it come from? Who wrote it? And why is it so important to the survival of mankind? This is post-Revelations and speculative based on promos for season 4.5, and will no doubt turn into alt. universe.
1. Prologue

AN: I am new to all of this. This is my very first foray into fiction writing—ever. Please be forgiving. I also have a sneaking suspicion that my chapters will be way-super-much shorter than those of other writers on this site. I'm a little slow, and it's a little like pulling teeth.

Rated T for angst, and just in case. It takes place after "Revelations," is speculative based on season 4.5 promos, will probably turn into alternate universe.

**The Book of Pythia**

**Prologue**

The Book of Pythia is a historical document.... Or, at least, based on one. It's not a complete manuscript. No, the Book of Pythia is the leftover bits and pieces of an older, complete work—chopped up, edited, erased, overwritten, and then glued back together—molded to suit the needs of the priestly class, who ironically have now forgotten its very existence. The text was sanitized, made into doctrine, regularized by committee. Turned into religious propaganda, it became a tool demagoguery—history transformed into religion to control the people.

So thoroughly had they done their job that the text lay forgotten, moldering in a box so far back in the archives of the sacred scrolls that the priests themselves no longer knew about it. The original Pythian text was lost to humanity. But not to the Clylons.

What no one, not the priests who suppressed the original, nor the Cylons, knew was that the Pythian text was not a book of prophecy at all—it was, in fact, a history of sorts—a future history. The cycle of time is real. And it can really mess with your head. A true prophecy is a vision of the future, a future that hasn't happened yet. A future history is a record of what is to come, informed by what has already come to pass. The prophet becomes historian, the historian, prophet.

But who wrote it? Who knew the history of the future, and how?

This is the story of the lone surviving copy of that manuscript and its role in the cycle of time and the fate of mankind.


	2. Chapter 1

**The Book of Pythia**

**Chapter One: Ashes to Ashes**

The universe has a very sick sense of humor, she thought. It was the ultimate irony—a great big cosmic joke—after a horrific nuclear holocaust, the people of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol went in search of their brothers, the fabled Thirteenth Tribe, just to find that they too had nuked themselves into oblivion.

* * * * *

As the yellow sun set on this bleak, gray world, the weight of the nightmare began to blanket their minds, suffocate their souls.

The four remembered it all. The fifth knew it to be true.

* * * * *

When they had returned to _Galactica_, Laura Roslin's first order of business had been to take vengeance upon the only thing she could, for truly she had only herself to blame. She had believed that damned book. She had gambled the future of the fleet on the words written on those pages. And she had lost. Like the gods she no longer believed in, she had played dice with the fate of mankind.

My gods, she thought, if only they knew. And when they do know…?

This object in her hand, these pages that she had turned so many times, these words stained with blood—had betrayed her. She wanted to purify herself, rid herself of these cruel, false gods—she knew the truth now, there was only one. But she would make this one last sacrifice to the many gods.

As soon as the raptor had hit the deck and the door opened, she had hurried to her quarters on the battlestar, leaving Admiral Adama behind to deal with the aftermath of this, her disaster. On the way out of the hangar deck, she had asked a tech for a torch. Once she reached her room, she had closed the door behind her and had gone straight for that damned book, the one that had been Elosha's, the one stained with her blood.

Laura Roslin put the sacred text on the metal table, flipped through until she found the illustration of the Opera House of the Gods on Kobol—she knew what that vision meant now—and brought the flame beneath it. She watched it catch fire. Watched the paper burn. Watched the edges turn red, then curl and blacken.

To rely on something so ephemeral had been madness. It had all been madness. She had been possessed, but not by whom she had thought. The world has been turned on its head. Up is down, down is up. Black is white, white is black. Human is Cylon, Cylon is human.

Her sacrificial offering on the altar of revenge and guilt burned bright and strong before petering out. No satisfaction. No catharsis. Her soul was empty. All she was left with was ashes. The Book of Pythia was ashes. The colonies were ashes. Earth was ashes.


	3. Chapter 2

AN: Warning--this is a bit demented, but when I thought of the fabulous symmetry between Rolsin burning the book because she thinks it is false and the preist getting burned because he thinks it's true was just too much to pass up. And really it's not as bad as it could be. I looked to the trial and execution of Joan of Arc, and they actually burned her body twice to make sure there was nothing left but *ashes.* Let me know if this tips the story from the T over into the M category. And, yes, I know, there is no dialogue and it's just kinda boring desciption, but I promise dialogue and action and stuff by next chapter. Really, I was torn between putting this into chapter one and leaving it on its own, but it's just easier this way. Just think of them as installments rather than chapters.

**The Book of Pythia**

**Chapter 2: The Sacrifice**

The echoes of a man's screams hung fresh in the air. The fire grew hotter, the flames higher. A column of thick, black smoke twisted sideways, caught in the wind, snaking skyward over the undulating crowd. The high priests turned their backs to the spectacle, their duty performed.

* * * * *

As the flames had climbed his robes and licked his face, he had screamed in agony. His eyes stinging with the smoke billowing from beneath him, he had barely been able to see the faces of the brethren, his brothers who had turned against him, against the gods themselves.

Once the processional had come to the base of the pyre, the herald had opened the scroll and read the charges against him and the sentence that the High Council had determined be visited upon the lowly priest, "For the crimes of heresy and blasphemy against the Lords of Kobol, it is the determination of the High Council that this man should be condemned to death for fear that otherwise he might corrupt public morality, threaten holy doctrine, and divide the people among themselves and the gods. We believe that it would be an intolerable offense to the gods should this man be left alive to spread his lies and heresies among the people of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol."

He had been led from the courtroom directly to the public square where his sentence would be read and carried out. Priests who had dedicated themselves to Hephaestus had already been engaged in building the pyre, towering to the heavens with a great stake set at the middle of a huge pile of faggots.

The trial had been a sham. The council of the high priests had called him up on charges of heresy and blasphemy, labeled him a schismatic, an apostate. It was one thing to prefer one god, they had said, but quite another to insist that there exists only one. But he had done no such thing. He believed in the Lords of Kobol, Zeus and Hera, Apollo, Athena, Aphrodite, Ares, all of them. His only crime was trying to preserve the true history of the Cycle of Time, the bedrock of their faith. He had tried to explain this, but was shouted down again and again, told that he had defied the will of the gods.

If not for his determination to save the original record of the death and rebirth of mankind, the history of the exodus, the great caravan—past and future—would never be known. As things stood, the Pythian Text had been saved, but only he knew where it was. Would anyone find it? Would it find its way into the right hands in time?

* * * * *

At last, mercifully, the thick smoke filled his lungs completely, leaving his unsaid prayers dying on his lips.


	4. Chapter 3

AN: Obviously, to call these "chapters" is absolutely absurd. And upon reflection, I must admit that they don't even merit the label "installments." Pulling teeth is easier. But I'm enjoying it.

**The Book of Pythia**

**Chapter 3: Mea Culpa**

Smoke stinging her eyes, Laura Roslin went to the hatch and opened it. Fortunately, the small fire hadn't set off any alarms.

Adama was turning the corner on his way to Roslin's quarters when he saw the smoke and started to run down the corridor. He arrived at the hatch to find Laura Roslin standing over a pile of ashes, obviously the remains of a book, its leather cover scorched but still intact.

"Laura! What the hell is going on?" he said, bewildered.

She looked up. No reply. Just a haunted look. Her eyes almost looked past him and her arms hung limping by her side. She looked defeated.

He had expected this, but the reality of it hit him square in the gut. He wanted to hold her in his arms, to stand between her and the nightmare that their reality had become. Not an urge he acted upon lightly—he knew her pride—nonetheless he moved toward her. As he lifted his arms to her shoulders, she pulled back, violently, as if his touch might burn her.

She couldn't bear his touch. She couldn't bear even the thought of his touch now. Jolted back into the present, she looked at him coldly, head held high. "There's something I have to do," she said.

Before the admiral could reply, movement at the doorway broke them off. Lee Adama stood there, an expectant look on his face. "We have to tell them something," he said, speaking to the room in general, looking back and forth between president and admiral. "And soon," he added. "News of this is spreading like wildfire through the fleet. We need to make a statement to the press. Let the people know…" he drifted off.

"Know what?" Roslin quipped with an eyebrow cocked. "Know that the dream of Earth is a nightmare, that the dying leader was just hallucinating after all."

The admiral looked sharply at her. "Now, Laura," he began.

She quickly cut him off and said icily, "No amount of spin is going to make anyone believe that this is not anything other than what it is—a complete and total disaster. It's the end of the world all over again."

She paused. "They'll never forgive us," she said, shaking her head slightly.

"That doesn't matter right now," Lee argued. "What does matter is that we keep a handle on the situation, keep the fleet from breaking out into open rebellion."

He had their full attention now. He continued, "The people have got to know that their leaders haven't abandoned them. Otherwise, there will be utter chaos."

Lee paused, catching his breath. "We have to take control of the situation before someone else does."

"Someone else?" remarked the admiral, knowing exactly where this was leading.

Lee Adama looked straight into his father's eyes and said, "Zarek." That was all that he needed to say. The admiral looked to the president expectantly.

Laura Roslin's gaze had lost focus again. "I can't," she said quietly but firmly. "They'll never forgive me."


End file.
